“When was Mr. Stafford invited? What do you know about his having been expected? Heavens, woman, answer me! ’Tis a matter of life and death for me.” “Mercy on us! Shall you be giving us the screaming vapours next, ma’am? I happen to know--if you must have it--that my Lady only heard of his presence in Weymouth at seven of the clock this evening, and nothing would serve her but he must be sent to that instant minute.” “Take me to the balcony you spoke of,” said Mrs. Lafone, in an extinct voice. Her clothes were hanging off her back, as Lydia shockedly pointed out; and her hair was a sight for the crows; and my Lady had only given leave for her own woman (though she wouldn’t mind Pam); Lydia felt sure she wouldn’t, so to speak, care about people as isn’t asked to the supper party, spying on His Highness in that common kind of way! But Mrs. Lafone produced a gold piece with so much promptitude that her bodice was pinned together, her mantle brought, and her still tottering steps guided to the upper passage and to the gallery in a remarkably short space of time. The balcony was filled with palms and flowering plants. If anyone had thought of looking up, and chanced to see the narrow, white face and fiery eyes peering down at them, they might have thought some witch had flown in on her broomstick to cast a baleful spell upon the cheerful company. The two Miss Pounces quite forgot their uncomfortable companion in the thrilling interest of the scene. Lively were the whispers they exchanged across the stem of a stout tree fern. “La, aunt, if that isn’t Mr. Stafford down there, as cool as a cucumber! Well, to be sure; ain’t the world a strange place?” “Cool he always was, as nobody knows better than me. The way he on and off with that poor piece, Madame Eglantine, when she kept a milliner’s shop at Bath, and proposing to my Lady all the while, and she the rich widow Bellairs. Well--cucumbers was not in it.” Pamela Pounce was craning eagerly forward. Certainly to see Mr. Stafford _in propria persona_ sitting genially in the company of the Prince, the guest of my Lady Kilcroney, after conspiring to humiliate and confound her, was the last development she had expected of the night’s drama. That my Lord Kilcroney should be playing host to the wife who had with contumely dismissed him was another matter, Miss Pamela Pounce was by no means so amazed to see him sitting at the supper table as Mrs. Lafone had been to see him walk in. “The little cat,” thought Pam, “’twas a real fit, sure enough, and serve her right. She ain’t succeeded this time--though she came near enough to it--in separating the elegantest couple in all society. What a good thing it is, Pam my girl,” (she was fond of apostrophising herself thus) “that you ain’t too squeamish to do a bit of spying in season and listen outside doors.” “His Royal Highness is taking a glass of wine with Mr. Stafford,” whispered Lydia sibilantly, in a prodigious state of excitement.